1 year in Delhi

Today I completed 1 year in Delhi.

This time, last year, I said farewell to a few very close relationships. The farewell gesture by the Office Head, the final evening at Clarke Quay, the last cigarette AZ and I shared, the tears that fell as I saw my apartment for the last time, the last Cappucino with low fat milk at Starbucks Changi airport, and the mixed feelings, of sadness as I left Singapore, and excitement as I was moving to back to where I had always wanted to work.

The memories of this night, one year back, are only too vivid. At about half past mid-night, a couple of hours after I had reached Delhi, the boy I liked, came over and we headed towards Dublin. I had been away from Delhi long enough and imagined Dublin to be an Irish-like bar, where I could share plenty of conversation with the boy. I imagined it to be of the type the boy and I loved, and loved talking about.

But! Dublin! Was! a! Club!!!! ‘Tu hi hai mera pyaar mahiya’ playing as we entered. No Draught beer. Random (and hot) Delhi chicks around us. The boy brought me to a club!! I should have followed the signs that night, my first night in Delhi, anticipated what lay ahead in the city.

Ironical. I had never been as excited about being back in the city.
A few other things that come to my mind, as I close my eyes and think of this 1 year.


Papa and I
Being surrounded my favourite people at my desk in office
The Cancun trip
The time I cried to BB for nearly 4 hours
The accident I had a week after the Cancun trip
My PEG life
The engagement and the entry of Nobster into the family
Getting back to endless email conversations
Flying in the Ghats
Coffee at Coffee Day, every single winter weekend morning
3 awesome books I read
Several photo trips
Gtalk conversations with people I hardly knew in school
The first Bombay trip and the cute American
Friday evenings with Beer and Peepu
Long, and almost always meaningful conversations with BB
Watching Khuda Ke Liye
Meeting old boy the next day, and a nice new one soon after, that night
The crazy TGIF + Ricks + Meridien coffee shop evening (!!!)
The Europe trip that got called off 3 times, and died a sorry death
Papa falling sick
The promotion
Mum, Papa and I watching Ghalib in New Delhi, at the end of this 1 year

I started the post intending to describe the last year. But may be not any further. The year was exciting, and eventful, but not a lot more than the previous years. So I’m just ruminating. What lies ahead? TGIF, home, chai in the summer rain, long road trips, short drives on green Delhi roads, FM radio as I drive, friends from DU, plays at IHC, another Delhi winter, chappals from Janpath, beer at Flavours, ice cream at India Gate, coffee at Coffee Day, books from Fact and Fiction, late conversations at Priya, quiet Sunday evenings at Italic.....

I think I’ll live here, in Delhi. The music….Aashayein……

Calm

I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. I’m a bit of a grumpy asshole right now.

The events in the last few days have, not surprisingly, left me low. After a few crazy days of running in and out of hospitals, I finally got a slightly easy day. Dad’s better now. We chilled together this evening. He’s better but he won’t ever be what he was until a week back. He refused a drink today (thank heavens!). He promises he won’t drive (I don’t believe this one will last). He’s a brave old chappie!

So am I.

I’m off work for a few days. My absolutely wonderful team has taken the load off me, and despite all the crazy weekend work, messages me several times every day.

Any way, I don’t intend this to be a depressing post. There’s calm now. It’s a beautiful night, and although in the middle of June, still not too warm. I don’t have an agenda for this post. I’m just really sleepy. But I’ll put off sleep. There are a few things that are making me stay awake.

The songs of ‘Khuda ke liye’, and ‘Achtung Baby’ alternating as my music player toggles between the 2 CDs. Actually, its just ‘Bandey’ and ‘One’ from the respective CDs. I’m usually a big fan of FM Radio, but there’s club music playing across channels, and I’m not exactly in the mood for “Mere rab ne diya sensation blah’ or ‘Where’s the party tonight’ or Rihanna. I could do with James Blunt though.

The afterthoughts from the first half of ‘The rise and fall of the great empires’ by Paul Kennedy. I’ve read it before, 5 years back. I’ve read a lot on History, but nothing as elegantly written as this piece. It convinces me of the impermanence of what we see in the international political economy today. It’s ironical how in a relatively short period, the axes of power have turned full circle. The first time I read it, it was borrowed from the library. I own a copy now.

The smell of Aloe Vera on my feet. It’s a Crabtree & Evelyn body cream that reminds me of my Singapore days. I’ve owned it since I moved into the little apartment at Darby Park, on Orange Grove Road. The luxury was so new to me. These were my first few weeks of work. I would end each day with a hot shower in the plush bathroom, followed by 15 minutes of slathering my legs with this cream. Then there was hot Darjeeling tea (all I could do in the kitchenette was boil water) and a book totally un-related to everything else in my life. I remember I was reading The Guns of August, those days. Another one I recommend.

My friends relentlessly messaging me on Gtalk. I won’t respond. J They understand. I’ve never been chat friendly. I find people messaging me on the IM at work, the most annoying habit in people. I understand if its ‘Hey, you wanna get lunch?’ or ‘Lets head to the meeting room’. But I have no tolerance for ‘Hey, if we use 2006 revenue per bed day, will that not skew our numbers, since every else its 2007, and the discrepancy will show up in erratic value increases?’ Ok, the guy who does this a very dear friend of mine. So the annoyance is not at the person, it’s at the habit.


My Pig (I don’t have a name for him), with its head buried in the bed and its bum facing the ceiling. I have 14 Pig figurines/toys in my room. Its not a conscious obsession. Rather, it’s a protest against the discrimination against anything Porcine, by toy companies that existed when I was a girl. It was usually stuffed bears and cats and rabbits (I h-a-t-e rabbits!). Pigs have only recently been added to the toy maker’s catalogue. (Pth: Why would a restaurant call an all-chicken dish Porcini. Dad was highly disappointed with his order last week) (Pth: Megha, Porcini mushrooms!!!!!!!!!!! Sic!!! Highly embarassed of my lack of knowledge. To my credit, noone pointed it out. As I built on my knowledge base, I discovered that there are mushrooms beyond Shitake (Spelt incorrectly, I know!)

My Pictures folder, which needs to be organized. I have a photo-blog long due for updating, or rather, bringing to life. Soon.

Now I’m really sleepy. There was no purpose to this post. Just lightening the load.

Pth: The music is now Carry You Home, by James Blunt. ………………..

25 and red!

Ask me what I did this birthday. I slept. All day.

Finally rose early evening, and decided its time for a change. My long (well this is the longest its ever been), black tresses are no longer black. I decided to take the bold step of coloring my hair red. Bold enough for someone who's hair has been the cause of 20% of her sorrows (pth: 30%-the weighing machine; 20%- guys, but this one varies significantly, has gone up to a scary 80% in post break-up times; 30%- sitting in one place for anything over 2 months, this one's nearly 90% now since I have no guy problems right now, the gym is showing its effects and my hair looks pretty good- see below).

This giant leap for my-kind actually turned out pretty neat. For someone who fears the sound snip, and has the history of always walking out of a hair salon disappointed, my tipping the stylist definitely reflects a happy birthday.

What do you think?

25

I’m finally there. 25, super smart, over-worked, VLNWI (very low net worth individual), proud, always trying to lose weight, emotional, loves U2, and history and big cities.

1:20 a.m on my 25th birthday. Having clocked over 90 hours this week, I should be sleeping. I’ll be off soon.

I’ve worked 12 hours today (its Saturday), consumed 2 bottles of beer, 2 glasses of scotch, and decided to sacrifice an hour of sleep to put together my wish list while my emotions are charged and my fingers aren’t complaining. So here’s what I want

Change. I’ve spent 12 of the last 15 years in Delhi. I have Delhi running in my veins. I love my city. But I think I need change now.
All the love I got from friends the last 6 months. I’m much stronger than I was earlier, but I had you by my side. I want this always. I’m greedy.
Time, to travel and read. There was a book sale at the club yesterday. I bought 26 books. I want the time to read at least 13 of them. And to get my UK visa this Monday. And the Schengen next week. And use them to visit Scandinavia and the UK.
More shoes. And I’m going to have it. The perks of busting your behind 5 days a week is you don’t deprive yourself of a single pair of shoes you really really like
Love. Well, there was this one time……………. But nevertheless. I’m convinced I came into to the world with an immense capacity to love. I want to love again. Just the way I did in the past. Unconditional, unyielding and fearless
Work, though a little less. So it’s established. I’m a workaholic. You might think I’m a hard-nosed, business suit clad, ambitious consultant, strutting along in my high heels, everyday. From 9 a.m. to 1 a.m. I’m not all that. But really, I love my job. It’s what’s kept me going despite in a really tough couple of years. I love the work I do, the people I work with, and how I successfully intertwined my work with the rest of my life, to an extent that I can never not be emotional about it. And I haven’t had enough of it. Well, maybe a little less won’t hurt



You know you’re 25 when at 12 a.m. you get fewer calls, but from every one who matters, and hardly anyone who doesn’t. All the guys who once loved (or lusted) for you, and made sure they didn’t miss the chance to call you at 12, have suddenly disappeared. Girlfriends always hang on, despite being 2.5 hours ahead. As do their sleepy boyfriends. Partners in crime who despite being overworked themselves make sure you don’t spend the day alone, and drink to the beginning of your 26th year. Family never misses this day. Old love (very short love) that could never find a way to work, but calls to wish, and , though not intending to, makes you wonder again, if it could have worked. The Partner on your case, who incidentally makes you work through the day, but texts you at 1:48 am. And some people, who somehow always remember to call you once a year, and only this once.

Its 2:15 a.m. I’m about to turn in. Pulp Fiction soundtrack in the background………Girl…..you’ll be a woman soon.

Continuing from my post on airports…..its hotels now

There’s always an upside of any kind of business travel- the luxurious light at the end of the dusty, humid tunnel!! After a day of a 6 a.m flight followed by 10 hours of driving from the airport to Mulund to Vashi to Kalyan, and then finding out you have to stay the night so you can drive next morning (6 a.m. again, to Nasik, the final stop is the Leela.

So I’ve been a consultant 2 years, travelled on work to several cities across Asia, and a bit in the US and lived in luxury hotels (or as they call them business hotels; my bar is clearly lower than that of HNWIs) throughout. But even now, the idea of spending an evening by myself in a well equipped, reasonably lavish room, with a view better than that of NH-8, appeals immensely to me. And it helps being alone, with little socializing to do. People warned me when I started life as a consultant that I’d get fed up of this sooner than I’d believe. Still no!

And it’s not like I’m staying by myself in a bachelorette pad, where I have to clean, cook, do the laundry etc myself. I live in my parent’s house, in a lovely little room, which has been made to evolve over the years (by me….I’m not that spoilt) to be exactly to my taste. Dim lighting, a reading lamp, a bookshelf next to my bed with my favourite books neatly stacked up, a little section where I admire myself (twice daily on weekdays, several hundred times on weekends), a small but highly functional bathroom, and a big bed (big enough for my small frame). And I love going back to it, most days of the week. Long evening chats with parents are the best stress buster!

I guess the love for these luxurious rooms comes from a day of work madness. And the fact that I so deserve it after that!

The other kind of room I love is the youth hostel, or a shoddy hotel room, but ONLY WHILE I’M ON VACATION. And this almost axiomatically leads me to dislike luxurious hotels, when on vacation. I loved the little room I had to spend half the night in the time I got locked in a park in South of England. I slept on a rug. At the same time, I absolutely hated the semi-luxurious room my firm paid for on my soccer trip to Madrid.


This one’s cool. No fuss, no gold furniture with over-done Indian carvings (unlike like Le Meridien in Jaipur, which although most firangs absolutely lurrve, I find overly ethnicized). This is plain luxury!

Lehman Brothers wrote a 560 page research report on eating out in Mumbai- entertaining but hardly helpful in choosing a place. Any way, I have an addition to it: Chicken Kathi Roll, Room Service, The Leela. I usually have high standards in food, so totally recommend the greasy, fried, but yummy Kathi roll.

Another discovery: the difference between a good day and a great day is a long hot shower!

Airports and being in India

Its 5:45 a.m, Wednesday morning, and I’m off on a work trip to Bombay. Ordinarily I’d be working on such a trip, but my current case is kind of wonky. Although it spans 4 weeks, I start getting data only in the 3rd week. While it’s always difficult to balance workload in a job like mine, having 2 reasonably unproductive weeks (except for work trips) is a bit much. So any way, I use my ‘unproductive’ time to write.

The one thing I absolutely dislike about being back in India is work travel in India. No, it’s not the weather, or the flight delays, or the one-day travel (thanks to exorbitant hotel tariffs). Sometimes, it’s the fact that all these things happen together. But if I had to put a finger one thing, it would be airports. It’s not the inefficient processes, pushy staff, and crowded lounges. Having spent an overwhelmingly large part of my life in India, I have surprisingly high tolerance for these things. What I find lacking in Indian airports (IMPORTANTLY, Delhi airport), is the airport smell.

Typically, all I need to do to get excited about a trip is step into the airport. Even if I’m seeing someone off, I start to plan my next travel, just by getting the airport whiff. The perfect airport experience is………let’s see….a mix of the sanitary smell of the clean and not typically crowded check-in counter, clear flight announcements, following a mild musical reminder that goes bing bong bing bong, a melange of perfume scents flowing in from the duty free, foreigners (usually white) running to catch their flights, with their kids running behind them, flat elevators (ok, travelators as they call them), perennial presence but occasional dominance of the smell of coffee, the smell of sandwiches being toasted at a small deli, and close to it, a well-lit bookstore with a friendly middle-aged guy who responds to every most of your queries with “Apologies, but don’t have it in stock”, but still helps you find some good books there, and while you’re paying for them, helps you pick a few magazines out. And me striding towards the coffee shop, in Adidas tracks, an old vest (usually blue or white) and a not-so-large backpack, just about managing to balance its weight with my own, carrying a ~300 pages book, on some silly mildly consequential war, or a travelogue on some random place which no more than a 10,000 people would have visited, or just as likely, a chick magazine, to read about fashion, celebrities and new (correction: old and over-leveraged by the editor) tricks on ‘how to make him forget everything else’.

Now my experience this morning.
The sanitary smell of the check-in counter replaced by my inability to find the check-in counter. In all fairness, my airport is under construction. And per their request, I’ll bear with the inconvenience today for a better tomorrow
Flight announcements- Reasonably clear
Perfume scents- None. May be because it’s the domestic airport, but the only whiff I got was of Ralph Lauren’s Romance, which I OD-ed on this morning
Foreigners running to catch their flights- Oh yes! Especially these 2 women, both very bohemian charging towards the ladies security check line (Pth: How do women travel in long skirts- may be because they’re tall, so their long skirts reach only their shins and give them plenty of room to walk. Sigh, I wish I were tall). I think they’re used to running at airports, because they’re on the same flight as me, and we were well in time for it. Also, I overheard the prettier one crib “Oh for once I wanna be in a more efficient airport”. Bitch! So I’m not unbiased
Flat elevators- No. Domestic airport, so unlikely
Coffee- Finally, yes! The smell, the blend, all there!
Book store- There’s one but I couldn’t go (For the nth time, it’s a work trip).
No smell of sandwiches
Me- Possible the biggest disappointment. The tracks and vest replaces, but a boring, all-black, pant suit. (Pth: Black pant suits are so not for me! I usually pass off as a 6/10 on the presentability scale, and in skirt suits, even a 7. But in Black pant suits, I slide a massive 4 points, down to a 2. I just don’t have the body for trousers. More details on that later, but if you’ve seen me face down, you know what I’m talking about), no book, backpack replaced with a reasonably good looking but heavy laptop bag and other cabin baggage

So it’s not really about Indian airports. It’s a mix of all those things I spoke about initially. And the fact that I’m in an all-Black pant suit. And that I’m shoved around until a final push throws me into my assigned seat on the plane. And that it’s hot. And that I’ll probably be back this evening, all groggy, without seeing Bombay at all, once again.

While in Singapore, I spent 5 months on a project in KL. This meant travelling back and forth every week, for 5 months. But because these weren’t day trips, I could fly Sunday night instead of Monday morning, and avoid the business suit agony. And even if it was a business suit, I’d be wearing a skirt. And not trousers. I could reach the airport 2 hours before my flight, visit the book store, sniff all the new perfumes at the duty free, run my fingers on the lovely Burberry scarf I always wanted but never bought, get coffee, sit on the floor outside the boarding lounge and burn phone cards on calls home. If there is one single thing I miss about being outside India, it’s just that- the airports.

Like a seasoned consultant should do, 3 things I love about some other airports:

· Munich: How they pronounce the airport as flukaafen or something. Spicy pepperoni. Everything else German.
· KL: The aero-train, which is absolutely redundant, but most fun. The Mango store. And the lovely people I’ve met here.
· Boston: The staff that held the Newark-Singapore flight 15 minutes, so I didn’t miss it. The row of chairs facing the runway. All the delis.
· Bombay: The new structure. Coffee Day. Crossword.
· Bali: The immigration counter which resembles a pre-paid auto line. The ubiquitous bali massage flyers. Stores dedicated to Bali oils and teas
· Heathrow: Mango, Zara and the men’s store which sells cute boxers
· Hong Kong: The pride. How everyone is dressed impeccably. And my trip with the folks.
· New York, JFK: Starbucks. Hudson News. And the round seating area in the food court, where you get to see exactly why American kids are fat
· Dubai: The fact that I spent 14 hours there because I couldn’t afford a more expensive flight. The duty free that I bought my first perfume at. The roughly equal split between American expat women, and burqua-clad women at the lingerie store, which sells possibly the sexiest lingerie I had seen until then (and clearly could not afford)
· Cancun. Yes, there eees something I like about the damn town- the airport. Hard Rock Store. Heavily discounted duty free that is temporarily the best solution to a wounded heart. Cheap tequila!
· Delhi. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Not until GMR (Thanks, Nobster) pulls up. No, there’s one thing: being home.

Monday evening off- I

Getting home by 8 PM on Monday evening, in a week that promises to be a killer-- puzzled, but happy. I suppose this means I’ll be working longer hours the rest of the week, but since I have, in the recent past, reached theoretical maximum capacity, it isn’t something that will worry me significantly. I’m totally rooting for Monday evenings off!

And a few other things, now that I think of it.

• Lonely places. There’s something about lonely places and lonely people. When loneliness gets addictive, it lends them a charm another person finds difficult to explain but even more difficult to disregard
• Relaxation of visa requirement for Indians. I’m 5 feet tall, a little over 50 kilos, and my mind, although super sharp, is absolutely incapable of bombing your land
• Freedom of expression. Speak out!!
  “Here, we miss people who speak out. Those who don’t, sort of fade away” – Megha’s favourite Manager
• Men who have left their double standards in 1990s. Thank you, thank you, thank you J. Just yesterday this came up in a conversation with someone. He thinks the whole ‘no double standards’ thing is a hygiene factor, not a non-negotiable. I didn’t entirely get his point (and I think it showed), but it’s definitely a non-negotiable, in that there are so few of you out there, I’d pay for it.
• Loving strong. I’m usually wrong in matters of the heart, but there’s nothing like a story nicely done!
• Falling hard. The bump on my rear definitely gave me a stronger face for the rest of my life
• Transparent tops. There’s usually a way of wearing them without looking slutty. And if there isn’t, ‘oh well’ always works
• Bombay. All the madness- lunch homes, classic rock bars, Blue Frog, old friends (who always raise the Bombay vs. Delhi argument), movie stars, sweaty evenings, the sea, the cute college students who sang ‘aankhon me teri’ to me, and the books the city has inspired
• Cleaning up my mess. There’s one person who left me to clean his (well, our) mess up, roughly 11,467 kms away, while he built an exciting new life for himself. Every time I see a picture of him, or him (the one time), he looks like an overgrown mouse.
• At least 30 minutes of exercise every day- Say goodbye to aging skin
• Non-malicious gossip. Its an excellent detoxifier
• 3 pitchers of beer on Friday night. And lots of conversation
• Higher salaries in India. High tax rates + Delhi/Bombay rentals + expensive international travel.
• Atif Aslam. For the passion, not the melody
• Water sports.
• Staying in touch.
• Delhi. For running in my veins, and for the rain this summer.
• Water, lime and honey. It hasn’t done anything for my weight or my skin. But its awesome detox. Or is it? Maybe I’ve psyched myself into believe it is
• Yellow blouses and polka dotted hair-bands. Make for pretty young things
• Skirts. Seriously, why do some women never wear skirts?!?! Can’t think of how trousers can ever be a better option. Bonus for every inch taken off
• Saigon Kick, for I love you